


Firecrotch

by Kaatiba



Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: Angst, Bipolar Disorder, Bipolar Ian Gallagher, Canon Compliant, Canon-Typical Violence, Canonical Child Abuse, Dancer Ian Gallagher, Fluff, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, One Shot Collection, Protective Mickey Milkovich, Season/Series 03, Season/Series 04, Slight Canon Divergence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-12-21
Updated: 2019-12-28
Packaged: 2021-02-26 22:22:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,349
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21881221
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kaatiba/pseuds/Kaatiba
Summary: Mickey Milkovich is the only one allowed to make redhead jokes about Ian Gallagher.
Relationships: Ian Gallagher & Mickey Milkovich, Ian Gallagher/Mickey Milkovich
Comments: 9
Kudos: 75





	1. Kick a Ginger Day

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Set sometime early S3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CartoonQueen1432 suggested the prompt of the South Park episode called "Ginger Kids" which inspired what has become known as "Kick a Ginger Day" and there's more stuff from that episode I might write/add

Mickey is in his old high school hallway, tracking down a drug debt when it happens. 

He’s been loitering by the water fountains, waiting to shake down a rich freshman named Tommy Hale for the gram of coke he sold him before juvie when a flash of red catches his eye. He sees his sister and his.. Well, he sees Ian too.

They’re laughing about something, and Mickey’s eyes trace Ian’s neck as he throws his head back for a full body laugh. Mickey is frustratingly endeared by it.

He tries not to draw their attention. As is, Mickey’s been spending too much time with Gallagher, and it’s been making him soft. Last thing he needs is someone seeing him pull some faggy bullshit like staring at Ian’s bright green eyes while he’s trying to do business. 

He has a reputation to uphold, even more so now that he’s done a stint in the hole.

Speaking of, he sees a nice Jansport and a dumb snapback that hints he’s found his prey. He begins to make his way towards the boy’s locker, shoulders braced to make himself bigger, arms flexed to show off his biceps under his wife beater, and tattooed knuckles curled in anticipation. 

He’s almost there when he hears Mandy’s familiar shriek, “What the fuck, Tyler!?”

He whips around and sees Gallagher on the ground, scowling, with Mandy zeroed in on the obnoxious looking fuckboy behind him, sneering at them both. 

The boy curls his lip, “Tell your asshole of a brother he still owes me that essay I paid for, Gallagher.” He spreads his arms and smiles maliciously, “And happy kick a ginger day!”

Ian has stood up now and makes a move towards the asshole, but Mickey beats him to it. Before “Tyler” can say another word, Mickey slams him against the nearest bank of lockers, and pins his chest.

“You fuckin’ messing with my sister?”

Tyler seems shocked before recognition seeps over him and he has the audacity to laugh derisively, “Milkovich? I thought you were busy dropping the soap in juvie?”

Mickey moves his arm to block the taller boy’s windpipe. A couple of straggling students are watching curiously now. “The fuck you tryna say about me?”

It’s a hypothetical since Tyler’s smug grin is gone and his face goes red as he struggles to inhale.

“Mickey!” Mandy finally chimes in “You can’t kill him here.”

Mickey appreciates the “here.” Mandy is a Milkovich, and she could just as easily let her brother kill or seriously maim this smarmy asshole without losing any sleep, but he just got out of juvie, and he has a feeling the redhead behind him might actually object to murder. 

Not that he cares what Gallagher thinks of him, of course. 

He pulls back, letting Tyler slide to the ground, gasping like a fish. Mickey waits for him to recover his breath before he delivers a nice, swift kick to the guy’s stomach.

“‘Kick a ginger day’,” he mutters, “How ‘bout kick a stupid fucking yuppie day, huh, dipshit?” he punctuates his words with a few more well aimed kicks. 

At this point, someone has alerted a teacher or something because some adult is stalking down the hallway towards him, security guard in tow. 

“Mick, you better run,” Ian’s voice pulls him from his reverie. Mickey is stupidly relieved to see that Ian doesn’t look appalled by his outburst, just amused and confidential as he says, “I’ll see you tonight,” quiet enough for Mandy to miss. 

Mickey doesn’t have time to unpack what that statement (command?) does to his stomach (not to mention his dick), because he’s already flying down the corridor, sending the security guard into full pursuit. 

He pauses right before the exit to turn around with two middle fingers in the air and say, “Fuck you all! I don’t go here anymore!” 

He also catches Ian’s eye and smiles at him briefly before he’s out the door and sprinting. 

Even after he’s left the school grounds, he keeps grinning and sprinting, fueled by the look in his favorite redhead’s eyes. 


	2. Does the Carpet Match the Drapes?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Set sometime in S4

Ian let all of his thoughts drift out of his mind as his heart pumped to the rhythm of the shitty EDM and the smell of sweat and hairspray filled his nose, numbing him to the sensation of his ass grinding against yet another greedy customer. 

The guy wasn’t half bad looking, and kind of reminded him of Lloyd Lishman, though Ian had grown out of going for older men where money wasn’t involved. The man dressed well enough, his cologne smelled like it cost over $50 a bottle, and he’d come to the club for the past three nights, and sought Ian out each time like clockwork. 

Obviously, Ian scored cash from returning customers like this guy, but he never got less annoyed by the arrogant entitlement their continued patronage gave them. All the older men in the club had an inherently consumptive attitude, but this guy was getting particularly handsy.

As Ian half stood to turn around and dance with his back to the man’s chest, a finger snagged the edge of his gold shorts. Eyebrows up, he looked down and pushed the man’s (was his name Fred?) hand away, top of the shorts snapping back into place. He played the motion off with a forced smirk.

“You know the rules,” he purred, though all he wanted was to leave the bastard and go find Mickey who was somewhere outside waiting to take him home since his shift was almost over and it was close to 4 am. 

Fred’s hand kept coming up though, trying to tug the edges of Ian’s short’s down, but fumbling. Ian could smell the bourbon on his breath and figured the guy hadn’t stopped drinking since he got here three hours ago. Frustrated, Ian looked around for a bouncer to tell the guy off, so he didn’t have to piss off a good paying regular. 

His attention was abruptly drawn back down as Fred finally managed a successful tug that briefly exposed the lower half of his happy tail, and Ian shoved off the guy’s lap completely, pulling the shorts back up quickly. Funny how, even though he’d gotten used to dancing in nothing but his underwear, he could still feel so exposed so quickly.

“The fuck?” he glowered at Fred who just gave him a dumb, tipsy smile. “Sorry, Curtis,” he slurred, “just wanted to see if the carpet matches the drapes.”

Ian was about to full body groan at the cliche when someone behind beat him to it. He whipped around to see a familiar pair of blue eyes and tattooed knuckles. 

“Real original, Pedo,” Mickey crossed his arms.

Fred ran his eyes up and down Mickey’s body, seeming unthreatened. Ian didn’t know whether it was the liquid courage or the heavy winter coat covering Mickey’s muscled arms, but Fred stood up from his chair to stare Mickey down (as much as he could manage to look straight ahead.)

“Mick, I thought you were waiting outside?” Ian asked, but both Mickey and Fred ignored him, too busy glowering at each other.

Fred smirked down at the shorter man, “Buyer’s privilege,” he tried to slide his hand behind Ian’s back, but Ian was already moving towards Mickey, trying to prevent too much collateral damage.

Mickey’s eyebrows were already arched sky high and he let out a disbelieving laugh that Ian knew preceded a gleeful beat down for the other man. He leaned in so he could whisper in his ear, “It’s alright, Mick, my shift is almost over, you don’t have to.”

Mickey let his eyes dart to Ian, softening for a moment, before scoffing, “Of course I don’t  _ have  _ to.”

Ian stepped back, exasperated affection bubbling up, giving Mickey permission to step towards Fred.

“You wanna see some red fucking balls, pervert?” he spit, before kneeing the man in the crotch, dropping him on the club floor. He then kicked him in the ribs for good measure. He would've kicked him again, but Ian put a calming hand on his shoulder.

The man’s pathetic moans finally caught the attention of one of the bouncers, and Ian saw his head bobbing towards them in the crowd, so he grabbed Mickey’s arm and dragged him to the private dressing rooms, a laugh bubbling in his chest as they tried to sprint through the crowd.

They slammed the door behind them then start laughing and shoving each other, buoyed by the same adrenaline fueled giddiness they’d had when they ran from the cops leaving Lloyd Lishman lying on a random North Side street.

Ian took a deep breath, finally calming down, “How long have you been watching me?” 

Mickey shrugged, breath evening out, “since two lap dances and three vodka shots ago.”

Ian huffed a laugh through his nose, “You don’t have to come inside to watch over me, that’s what the bouncers are for.”

Mickey snorted derisively, “Some good they were doing.” Ian couldn’t really argue there.

“Plus, they’re looking out for Curtis,” Mickey mumbled, his voice curled around the stage name disapprovingly. 

“What?”

Mickey looked down at his feet, “Someone’s gotta look out for Ian, not just Curtis,” he explained hastily. Ian’s stomach fluttered at that before Mickey poked his shoulder, “Since you’re such a trouble magnet, Firecrotch.”

Ian smiled and rolled his eyes at the use of the familiar nickname. Mickey was the only person whose redhead jibes were actually welcome. 

Ian let his hand slide up the back of Mickey’s neck, so he was cradling his head before leaning down for a deep kiss. 

They both knew this way Ian’s way of saying  _ Thank you for defending me, I love you _ . 

The kiss was the opposite of being on the dancefloor, the thumping bass was muted and distant, the smell was all Mickey and home, and Ian savored the physical sensation and the way Mickey’s body molded against his. How their mouths slid together effortlessly, none of the former hesitation on Mickey’s part. 

Mickey was the one to pull away first, but not without running his hand through Ian’s sweaty hair first. “All right, Red, let’s get you home, you need a fucking shower.” He pretended to scrunch his nose up, but made no effort to move away from Ian. 

They both knew this way Mickey’s way of saying  _ Whatever, it's not a big deal, I love you too _ . 


	3. Soulless

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Accurate Canon? Never heard of her.
> 
> Set in a semi-divergent late S4 where Mickey came out, Ian lives with him, but hasn’t had his depressive episode yet, it’s the middle of winter, and Frank isn’t dying or in the hospital, and everyone else lives at the Gallagher house.

It’s only been two days since Ian went all Glenn Close and tried to slash Kenyatta’s neck in the middle of the Milkovich kitchen. It would’ve been a good riddance, but Mickey knows Gallagher would be haunted by an actual murder on his conscience. 

After everything that’s happened, Mickey still looks at Ian and sees a soul that is uncorrupted, despite growing up in the South Side. Fuck that piece of shit for hitting his sister, but he’s won’t let the situation blacken Ian’s heart of gold.

That’s why Mickey’s been tailing Ian wherever he goes. Ian knows he’s worried about him, but in his energetic, seven-thoughts-ahead state, he tolerates Mickey’s mother henning. Whenever Ian sees Mickey looking into his face in concern, he pecks him on the cheek and continues to ramble ideas or hum songs or drags Mickey to wherever to do whatever. 

Mickey loses his breath just listening to Firecrotch speak these days. Not to even mention the marathon sex. Mickey is surprised he can still stand, let alone chase Ian up and down the neighborhood every day. 

That’s how Mickey ends up in the Gallagher kitchen the night that shit goes down. 

Fiona and Lip, also watching Ian with very thinly veiled concern these days, had convinced him to come home for a good, old-fashioned Gallagher family dinner. Mickey could only imagine what those entailed: a Milkovich “family dinner” consisted of Mandy making everyone pizza rolls, while his brother cleaned the guns, and their dad discussed a new hit. Standing in the dilapidated, but still cozy, yellow kitchen, Mickey thinks what he’s always known; Ian grew up differently.

When Mickey had walked in, hair gelled back in a semblance of effort, Lip had cast him a weary glance and Fiona a tight lipped smile. The rest of the Gallagher clan was crowded around the TV and yelling at it. Behind the curtains, he saw Wallace Street darkening as the sun set. 

Ian, who’d been up to see the sun rise, was still hopelessly energetic as he bounded into the living room to general yells of delight and scooped up each of his little siblings in turn, swinging Liam around in the air. Mickey watched as Ian rocked him on his hip like he always did with Yevgeny.

He was distracted when Fiona shoved a handful of silverware into his hands, “Make yourself useful, make the table,” she ordered. His gut reaction was to say “fuck you” but he realized her tone wasn’t unkind, and she was trying to help him participate. Looking into her tired but steady gaze, he wondered if the Milkovich household could’ve been functional if they still had a mother figure, or if they’d still be such a shit show. He begins setting the table, not really knowing which utensil should go where, but not really caring. He can hear Ian laughing, just a little too high pitched, from the couch. 

20 minutes later, Mickey is seated at the table, surrounded by 6 Gallaghers, and wondering how this became his life. “I made your favorite,” Fiona ruffles Ian’s hair as she sets down a steaming casserole dish of lasagna. “I even made you some of your rabbit food,” she winks at the redhead as she sets down a serving dish with green beans. Ian beams right back at his sisters, “Thank you, Fi.” Mickey is staring at the green bean plate. He can’t remember the last time anyone in the Milkovich house ate, much less served fresh vegetables. He squirms in his seat, but feels Ian’s leg brush his. 

Mickey is relieved when the quiet domestic moment passes, and the table descends into chaos. Gallaghers being loud and obnoxious, that he can understand. While he’d grown up with sullen, anxious silences interrupted by insults and curses, the Gallaghers manage to keep up at least five animated conversations at any given moment. Quips are being thrown back and forth, hands swiping crescent rolls, inside jokes, criss crossing from one end of the table to the other. Even Liam in his high chair is looking around at his siblings and muttering emphatically. 

Mickey doesn’t say anything, but he eats the admittedly good food and listens to everyone talk. He admires the way Ian’s face lights up when Carl asks him a question about knife throwing or Lip says something snarky and condescending. Mickey’s feels overly warm, but he’s not unhappy. 

He think Fiona warned her siblings not to comment on Mickey’s presence because even Lip doesn’t pick at him out loud. Obviously they’ve decided to cultivate a sense of normalcy to avoid one of Ian’s mood swings or to stop him from walking right out, back to Mickey’s, and not returning to Wallace Street for weeks. 

The food goes quickly, and Ian is immediately up on his feet to help Fiona clear the table and do the dishes. Mickey gets up to steal a beer from the fridge. Spirits are still high when their bright, warm bubble is burst by a gust of cold Chicago wind and the sound of a door slam. 

“Shit, I forgot to bolt the door on our way in,” Ian turns around, and they all look to see a drunk and stumbling Frank, rubbing his nose in the doorway, muttering, “Make me walk up through the back door of my own house..”

“It’s not your house,” Fiona says forcibly calmly. Lip is watching Ian, “Get out, Frank.”

“But it’s freezing out there! You don’t want your flesh and blood to die out in the snow!” Frank says grandly, sweeping his arm, and showing off the holes in the winter coat he somehow snagged. Mickey thinks he’s drunk enough to keep him quite warm for the night. 

“Wouldn’t be much of a loss would it?” At that, Mickey glances over to see Ian with his signature angry, tight lipped pout and flaring nose. He has a sense of deja vu, but before he can think of a good way to diffuse this new development, Frank is off on a tangent. 

“How soulless of you,” he guffaws, “get it,” he gestures towards Ian’s hair, “the _soulless_ _ginger_!” No one else laughs or moves. 

He staggers forward a step, face resetting into something more serious and cruel “always the dumb and quiet ones you have to watch out for,” he pokes Ian in the chest, “the spawn of a cunt and another blood traitor,” he spits, and Mickey thinks he’ll have to hold Ian back, but it’s Frank who moves first.

Fiona shrieks as Frank delivers a surprisingly powerful right hook to Ian’s left cheek, knocking him against the counter where he trips and lands on the floor, dishes coming down on top of him.

Mickey hears all the Gallaghers yelling angrily now, but it gets lost against the buzzing of his ears, and he vaguely registers Frank pulling back a dirty boot to kick Ian while he’s down, before he sees red, and the next thing he knows, he’s hauled the drunkard off and thrown him back against the laundry machine so hard it leaves a faint dent. 

He delivers several kicks and punches in rapid succession until the Gallagher patriarch vomits against the linoleum. Mickey instinctively flinches away in disgust before hauling Frank up by the collar to meet his gaze.

“If I ever see or hear you lay a hand on  _ him  _ again..I’ll..” Mickey’s so angry he can barely think. He’s delivered so many beatings before, but he’s taken aback by the emotions coursing through him right now. “I’ll chop you into little bits and throw you in the Chicago river, and that’s a promise, not a threat,” he growls. 

He steps back, dropping Frank back down in disgust. He sense Lip at his elbow, and together, with Carl somewhat helping, they haul Frank out of the house and dump him into a nearby snowbank.

They re-enter the kitchen, dead bolting the door this time, and walk in to see Fiona running her hand through her hair and trying to help Ian hold an ice pack to his cheek, though he keeps batting her away. Liam is crying, and Debbie is nervously holding a broom and staring at the mess of broken dishes at Ian’s feet. 

Mickey, expecting the incident to send Ian flying off the handle, is surprised to see Ian looking rather calm and resigned. No one except Liam is making any noise. As his siblings start to crowd him, Ian shrugs them off petulantly and heads upstairs. 

Mickey lingers a minute to watch the Gallaghers watch Ian leave with equally resigned and concerned expressions. Lip and Fiona have a silent conversation. Carl phones Vee without having to be asked. They all seem upset, but not surprised. It feels like they’ve been through this before, like they have a routine down. 

Mickey isn’t a stranger to domestic violence. It’s almost all he’s ever known. He knows what it’s like to have an abusive father. He knows what it’s like to be in a household where everyone lives in fear. But sitting in the Gallagher’s kitchen, with its finger paintings on the fridge, eating a home cooked meal, he’d thought they were different. 

Mickey knew Frank Gallagher was a good for nothing drunk, but he hadn’t known he hit his kids. It hurts him more than he can describe to realize even the most functional Southside family he knows, that he’d begun to romanticize in his head, is just as fucked up as his in this regard.

He runs up the stairs and into Ian’s old room to see him icing his own cheek, and changing his shirt since the old one was stained with blood. Mickey, quickly panicking began scanning Ian for the source of the blood (Yeah, his right eye was already starting to bruise, but there shouldn’t be any blood!) when he notices a cut on Ian’s right hand. Just as suddenly, he realizes what happened; when Ian fell, he tried to catch himself with his right hand, only to cut it on a shard of a shatter plate. 

Mickey has to take a deep breath to still the shaking in his own right hand, whose knuckles are already turning their own shade of blue. 

Ian hasn’t looked at him yet. He pulls a piece of gauze out of his dresser, and Mickey doesn’t want to think about why that’s there, but he can’t stop thinking about it. He helps Ian cut a piece of the bandage after his hands fumble, still shaking with adrenaline. Mickey helps him wrap the cut, then leaves his hand there, cradling Ian’s larger palm in his own throbbing knuckles. 

His voice is gruff, “This happen a lot?” Ian frowns and shrugs, “Nah, Frank isn’t physically violent, just an ass.”

Mickey grabs his chin, lifting Ian’s green eyes to meet his own. They look vulnerable but defiant, like the first time they got together. Mickey Milkovich fell in love with Ian the second he saw that look, even though it took him forever to admit it to himself. 

He doesn’t have to say anything, just raises his eyebrows, squeezes Ian’s hand, and waits for him to speak. 

Ian cracks, frowning deeper, “He only...I’m the only one,” his voice quavers just a bit, “He’s always hated me the most, and I don’t care, I  _ don’t _ ! I just...I hate the way the others always look at me afterwards, you know?”

Mickey does know. It’s why Mandy yells at him everytime he so much as mentions her bruises, why Mickey couldn't stomach looking at Ian for days after Svetlana. Mickey knows pride, and he knows shame, and he knows how well they walk hand in hand.

“And your siblings haven’t done shit about it?” Mickey asks, indignant now, having mulled it over. 

“What’re they supposed to do, Mick? We already have to kick him out at least once a month as it is.”

“I don’t know,” Mickey scowls, “Kill him!”

Ian huffs a laugh, wincing as he pulls at his swollen cheek, but still smiling. “Not all of us are so well-equipped for murder, tough guy,” he pokes Mickey in the stomach, but Mickey is not distracted, “You seemed halfway there with Kenyatta the other day,” Mickey grumbles, regretting it immediately when Ian pulls back. 

“I was just so  _ angry _ ...like..Fuck, Mickey, I was  _ so so _ fucking angry, you know?”

Mickey just beat the shit out of Frank in fury, so yeah, he kinda knows. He watches Ian look more and more frustrated as he struggles to find the right words. Mickey thinks this is the closest to “Old Ian” he’s been since he came home. 

“I’ve just been so.. _ so.. _ ,” he looks at Mickey pleadingly, “everything is so  _ sharp _ , Mick, my skin feels electric, and it’s like there’s no time left, and I can’t not move, or I’ll die, and everything is so, so  _ real _ ...I don’t..” 

Ian is starting to get worked up now, so Mickey, pushes him down to sit on the bed, and kisses the top of his head. “You don’t have to explain it all to me tonight,” Mickey sits down, and Ian rests his head on his shoulder. 

They can hear the door open downstairs, and Vee’s voice carries up. Ian rolls his eyes, “It’s just a bruise, they didn’t need to call her,” he mumbles. Regardless, Mickey stands up, and lets the old nurse in when she knocks. He pats Ian on the shoulder, “ We can talk more about it in the morning.” 

Ian sends him a small smile, eyes tired, and calm, and lucid.

\--------------------------------------------------

Mickey wakes up slowly, wondering why his body is curled up so uncomfortably and his hand is aching, before he remembers the events of the night before he’d crashed in Ian’s narrow bed. 

He looks around for Ian himself, but doesn’t find him. The bed is cold. He wearily trudges downstairs in the same jeans and sweater he wore the previous night and finds Ian whizzing around the kitchen, where just 12 hours ago, he lay crumpled up. 

“Ian?”

Ian is loudly and emphatically telling some story about the boys at the club to an enraptured Carl and sleeping Liam. Lip is at another stool, frowning at his little brother. Mickey frowns at him too. He has a shiner, and his right eye is swollen almost shut, but he’s grinning as much as he can under the circumstances. He finally whirls around.

“Mickey!” he yells joyfully, “Come grab a PB&J!” He points to a plate sitting on the counter, stacked nearly a foot high with dozens of sandwiches. Carl happily munches one, but says, “I thought we were out of Peanut Butter?” Ian laughs, although it wasn’t funny. “We were! I ran to the Aldi this morning to pick up a jar, or...10 jars,” he shrugs.

Lip’s frown deepens, “It’s not even seven yet, you didn’t catch the L, did you?”

Ian shrugs, “I ran there, training and all,” he winks like it’s an inside joke, but Lip looks at Mickey this time and says, “That’s ten blocks away and it’s still snowing out.”

Mickey makes a fist with his damaged hand, feeling the skin stretch and tear. He has the sudden urge to cry. 

They’d come so close last night to...Mickey doesn’t know what, but he’d gone to sleep feeling hopeful. Now, Ian’s rambling fills his ears, the kitchen is cold, and he knows they’re right back to where they started, and all he can do is watch the boy he loves make a hundred sandwiches and laugh at nothing.

**Author's Note:**

> If you have a good cliche/joke/one liner about redheads, feel free to comment, I might use it to write another chapter.


End file.
